Hopeless Football Society

On a very slow day of meaningless college football games last weekend, when weeds outside were calling to be whacked, I had to find some justifiable way of remaining on the couch.  A call from a friend made it all possible.  He inspired me to write a very poetic blog.

9-whittierThe Whitworth Pillaging Pirates from Spokane, Wa, were traveling to play against the Whittier Poets of “somewhere” in California.  It’s appropriate the “Poets” don’t really have a proper place of residence.  It’s simply, “somewhere in California”.  Lost souls.

Instinctually, I began thinking of Notre Dame and the Fighting Irish, or the Ragin Cajuns from the University of Louisiana, Lafayette.  These are somewhat intimidating, if not menacing mascots.  Hell, even the Stanford Tree makes the Poets sound withered with fear and desperation.  So, I couldn’t help but imagine how CBS’s own Brent Musburger would announce their presence on the grid iron.

“Here come the Depressed and Socially Dysfunctional Poets of Whittier University!”

“And here they are, the Rambling and Blathering Poets of Whittier.”

“Make no mistake, these are the darkest Poets you will ever see on turf.”

“Just about to exit the locker room and enter the modern day gladiator stage will be California’s own, ‘what the f–k is a Haiku?’  Whittier Poets!”

Pre-game prep, also referred to as, “The Emily Dickenson Stretch” requires players to stay, completely secluded, in an attic for days before the game, studying game film, writing sonnets and pondering the difference amongst heaven, hell, purgatory and the possibility of half time.  During the game, defenses facing the Poetic offensive diatribe succumb to abject confusion and dilated eyes.  The only caveat is whichever team wins, they won’t know it until they are dead.  That defines the life and death of a poet.

So, smoke it up, you bards of Somewhere, California.  You will never know if you win a National Title, but you will successfully depress people throughout the nation merely by wearing a weird helmet and dimming the stadium lights.

 

Ok ok ok…

Living in the Pacific Northwest, I have always loved rooting for the Seattle Seahawks.  I am not a member of the 12 man society, but I love those who are.  They entertain me and inspire me almost as much as a Matthew McConaheeee commercial.  In the fourth quarter of today’s game, my wife had given up hope on a Seattle victory, and I tried to give her strength to hold on to her dream of the Hawks winning their opening game.  Demoralized beyond the point of husbandry pleasantries, my words were fruitless.  She had evaporated into a couch already saturated with Seattle Mariner tears.  It was then, when Matthew McCohancahee, during a commercial break, gave her relief at the precise moment she required it.  It wasn’t the car he was selling, and it wasn’t the pool he was oddly falling in, making us all question his sanity, and it wasn’t even those eyes….those steel blue eyes placing you in a sauteed mushroom trance.  Rather, it was…..well, other than absurdly ridiculous, a wake up call, reminding us that reality can become unreality, and that can become reality.  Wow.  Our heads were spinning with both excitement and abject confusion.

The following might be true.  Then again, it might also be true.  Just try and make it false, and that may also be true.  (It’s simple Matthew McCognicence 101.)

There was no laughter, only profound admiration and respect for Matthew and his craft.  When the commercial came to its epic conclusion, we were subliminally reminded of his greatest line sending him into a wildly successful vortex of celebrity bliss.  “Are you lookin at me?  Are you lookin at me?”  Wait a minute. That’s the wrong line and perhaps a different actor.  “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” That’s not the right one either. My fault.  I guess it was something a little more relaxed which was what we both needed before giving up on our home team. “Alright, alright, alright…”.  Shortly after we properly remembered those words of biblical proportion, the Seahawks pulled off an unlikely victory.

Alright, Alright, Alright.

I love that guy!

Ice Breakers

For many teachers and students, last week was the first day of school.  As a former teacher, from my perspective, it was always the best day of school, therefore, I’m summoning great nostalgia.  Special tactics, or “ice breakers” are required each year on the first day to engage, confuse, or scare students, thus providing expectations for the following one hundred and seventy nine days of academic exploration.

Awkwardness is the only way to describe the first day of school for novice teachers and all students.  Neither, properly, know what the hell to do on this day.  So, sometimes, as a teacher, you simply improvise, risking the respect from others, and even your job.  I chose the first days to make it awkward for everyone just to break up the monotony of “What did you do over your summer break?”  It was an attempt to break up the ice and make them feel at ease……so to speak.

Each year, I disrupted my menu of classroom expectations either because I became bored, boring,  or an administrator reminded me about the meaning of the term “irreverence”. One, and only one year, I pretended on the first day of school to have a wooden arm.  It was astonishing how convincing I was.  With complete silence, entering the room, my left hand was clenched, precisely, with no movement, save for the help of my right arm assisting it. The room remained silent for an interesting ten or fifteen minutes.  My right arm was used for assisting my left arm to turn on or off lights, open and close blinders and even log on to my computer. These students seemed either collectively engaged, confused and some a little scared.  I figured if I could get the “highly gifted” students engaged, the  “middle of the the road” students confused, and a few punks a little scared, it would make teaching a little less complicated.

Entertaining myself by maintaining a serious face and a phony arm, while collecting attendance, I noticed the students weren’t listening to me, but rather, staring at my left  arm. I then realized it probably wasn’t so funny if one of their family members or friends had lost a limb in battle or for some other unfortunate reason, such as lighting a one thousand dollar firework off in their hand.  So, I quickly gathered my immature behavior and shook my left arm as though it had just been sleeping.  They all looked at me as if I was a little off, or even crazy.  Some laughed or gasped, but for the next one hundred and seventy nine days, I certainly had their attention.

Days later after performing my special tactics, my administer rolled her eyes, giving me a “Be careful, Ben”  warning. Weeks later, some of the parents attending the parent-teacher conference “laughingly” asked me to demonstrate my ability to have a disability.

 

 

 

 

 

Paws

“The next time you place your tiny paws on my computer, it better result in a great (expletive) story!  Otherwise, get off my keyboard!  Evidently, delete and publish means nothing to you.  Got it??”

A conversation with our kitten.

 

Blame it on Rio or NBC?

After close to a week, I am still recovering from an Olympic hangover.

Since 1980, I’ve followed the Olympics, Summer and Winter, with patriotic fervor and genuine interest with war being settled on a mat, track, in a pool, or on some ice.   Sports, using that term loosely, I would never commonly pay attention to are witnessed with terrific zeal.  A miracle on ice, perfect ten from Mary Lou, and even a bobsled from Jamaica are amongst many of my fond memories.

This year, I was disappointed, mostly due to NBC’s dreadful coverage.  Even one of my closest friends stated with hyperbole, that he wanted to kill Bob Costas.  “We’ll be right back with the two hundred mile swim medley featuring Michael Phelps” meant nothing to him nor me.  Three hours later, we were falling asleep to commercials and snooze worthy stories.

Mind you, I paid attention to the games every night, but found something to complain about either because I compare them to prior Olympic years, or I am getting older and more cantankerous with every hair I lose.  Talking to others, I received similar feelings, yet, I must begin with the positive.  Both Simones, competing in gymnastics and swimming will be something to behold forever.  A girl with the last name of Ledeky must have been swimming using PET’s. (Performance enhancing toes……….they must be webbed.)  And, unless a man with the last name of Bolt and Caitlin Jenner have children, I don’t see a faster person entering our world for a long time.

This brings us to Michael Phelps.  As magnificent as he is, I simply grew tired of him. Perhaps, I’m just soggy because of the endless amount of events earning him the opportunity to surround his neck with a billion medals.  He is the Mr. T of medalists.

After some collective research, many Americans asked why beach volleyball should be on prime time T.V..  I couldn’t definitely answer that.  However,  I do know this: Females wearing thongs are something I will remember in most of the events including diving, gymnastics, and synchronized swimming.  My wife didn’t have to ask why I was watching these events instead of Major League Baseball.  She would just look at me, and say, “Really?”  I told her I was intrigued with  green water and the pommel horse, which doesn’t even exist in women’s gymnastics.  She bought that about as quickly as anyone bought, and now have sold, Ryan Lochte and his story.

A Proper Escape

“I enjoy being anyplace where guns aren’t within reach.”

-Author: Unknown  (Pretty sure it wasn’t Charlton Heston.)

What can we rely on when our world is in crisis?  Where do we collectively join in text embraces when we are sick of political buffoonery or people wielding weapons so haphazardly as a common hammer?  When wishing to decompress or even decompose, many choose to seek refuge in our glorious sanctuary of athletic joy. This “season of the sport” couldn’t come at a better time.  Put down your weapons for a moment and enjoy the show.  We have the Olympics with Michael Phelps and American Vandal, Ryan Lochte. We have College Football and the NFL sneaking around the corner of a baseball pennant race which will lead to a terrific post season.  We also have an American and Canadian classic movie, “Slap Shot” on every other channel.  For crying out loud, I don’t watch pre-season football, but I love those who find happiness doing so.

I’m tired of bombs, fires, floods and enhanced security at airports.  Let’s take a much needed break from terrorism, whether it’s Mother Nature or the guy next door, and focus on these sports, ultimately, making us forget the truth for a bit.

All you other A-holes can read a book.

Cramping

One of my sisters once said camping in a hotel was much better than camping outdoors. My friend, one of the toughest guys I’ve ever met, would agree with my sister.

A terrific comedian, Jim Gaffiigan, did a fabulous bit on the miseries of camping and the possibilities of being eaten by a wild animal.  I can’t steal his humorous thunder, but I can describe the reality, vicariously, through one of my friends.

What you are about to read is shocking. These are text excerpts from a friend currently camping with his wife, family, and some friends.

Day one: “Let the wife do all the shopping for me and packing.  She woke up bubbly this morning, and my goal is to knock the bubbly out of her being.”  (I requested confirmation.)  “I need her to stop being bubbly.  So, I’m going to antagonize her until she is no longer bubbly.  I want her to be as miserable as me.  So, I’m knocking the bubbly out of her being.”  (When not camping, this is a happily married couple of over fifteen years with three wonderful sons.)

Day Two: He just described his wife as a Roman Candle.  She didn’t respond very well after she did all the packing and retrieved all the food. Evidently, she didn’t pack his favorite foods.  He may be sleeping in the car, if there is one near by.

Update: “I was a dick head to my wife at a subconscious level.”

How lovely.  This poor man loves his wife, but hates his weekend life in the woods. I’m not buying that entirely.

Day Three:  “I’m going to cover myself with honey and this expensive huckleberry jam we purchased at the campsite’s convenient store in hopes a bear soon takes me out of my misery.”

I haven’t heard from him since.

 

 

Does Bow Know Baseball?

Tim Tebow deciding to play Professional Baseball will thrill minor league players for taking their jobs just to fill seats.  He will be well loved and embraced by those in the clubhouse barely able to pay their rent in the offseason.  For his sake, I hope “his” God teaches him how to hit a 95 mile per hour fast ball which may or may not be directed at his head, or, hopefully, since I am a pacifist, his ribcage.

Fox Tales (A Kool Ode to Summer)

Prisoners don’t sell Lemon Aid when they’re in jail.  They sell Kool Aid.  Lemon Aid will get you shanked or severely beaten.  Kool Aid will keep you on the safe side of the woods…..no matter what type of flavor it is.

While roaming the streets the other day, I stopped by an estate sale.  Not interested in purchasing anything, I thought I may find something to buy so I could justify using the inhabitant’s bathroom.  That’s when I stumbled across this picture.  LemonaideStandAs far as I know, people don’t usually sell family pictures at their sales. Clearly, the people promoting their trinkets were also preparing for a trip to a nearby transfer station.  Oddly, this specific picture was the only thing I could imagine buying.  The people working the sale didn’t know these two ruffians, therefore had no issue with me purchasing it. Perhaps, because I didn’t know the two boys selling drinks at this stand, it made the picture seem a little like a piece of serene summer nostalgia.  It resembled more of a painting, or a portrait. Prison cell Norman Rockwell if you will.

After purchasing the picture for less than the two boys were selling their aid, I could only imagine they might be brothers. If you look closely at the well lit cardboard sign, these two young fellows below are selling Kool Aid, and they look as though they are trapped in this makeshift, wooden, and glorious chunk of lumber confinement.  It could be a four by four, or six by six space……no big deal.  One looks pleased and the other looks as if he’d prefer lighting his store on fire, just to collect his allowance insurance. By the way, in the seventies, what kid didn’t light something like a dry field on fire?  Therefore, I believe my theory regarding their pyromaniacal behavior may be spot on.

I also wondered why were they selling Kool-Aid as opposed to Lemon Aid?  I guess they were just ahead of their times.  Taking a look at the background, the atmosphere beyond their faces told the story.  I imagined they were living on a dead end street where no one, with the exception of the mailman, may consider purchasing a beverage.

I’m glad this play pen wasn’t solitary.  It looks similar to what Gilligan and the Skipper might fabricate to gain the attention of Mary Anne and Ginger.  Or, it could have been a father building this solid oak convenient store just to keep them out of their mother’s hair on the inside.

I’ll bet that house behind them was filled with loving parents.  Or, I guess that’s what I wish to imagine.  I’ll also bet those two may have been in trouble for lighting some brush on fire behind their humble house, thus being forced to sell Kool-Aid after their mother had perhaps extinguished the fire.

Looking beyond their eyes and place of business, I imagined them taking breaks after nary a patron was to stroll upon their street, unless running from the law.   I thought of  them running through the foxtails, only to return to a mother telling them to dispose of their fox tailed socks so they didn’t destroy the washing machine.

There are a few things brothers or friends do during the days before you must return to the drags of school.  You play Wiffle Ball, mow the lawn, set fires, and sell beverages only fit for a parched and sympathetic mail man.

Cleveland’s Costumes

With my back turned, listening from a distance (my kitchen) to the Republican National Convention, I was hearing a chant which caught my attention.  Turning from the shrimp filled saute pan, I swore I could distinctly hear, quite rhythmically, “Al-Co-Hol….Al-Co-Hol…Al-Co-Hol!”  After further analysis, they were instead chanting, “Build the Wall…Build the Wall….Build the Wall!”  Of course, my first assumption was a bit silly, or was it?

Soon after recognizing my error, I received a text message from my brother, Tom, commenting on the convention’s atmosphere.  (This is a direct quote from my brother….no plagiarism whatsoever……I didn’t write one word of this……nor did my speech writer.)

“These are grown up adults at these conventions, in costumes, waving signs that are horrendous.  Where is Mark Twain when we need him?”

Precisely.  Mark Twain would have eloquently crucified this gathering, whether he was a Trump supporter or not.  And, if I may add, he would not have been the least bit surprised if they were chanting “Al-Co-Hol!” because clearly, the vast majority had been imbibing prior to entering the arena.  Is there any other excuse for this behavior?  I guess I could think of one other excuse, and as an educated American, I will patronize an audience by providing a simple suggestion.  Make America smart again.